


Indestructible

by SuperJakhash



Category: Original Work
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-01
Updated: 2020-06-22
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:08:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22965181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuperJakhash/pseuds/SuperJakhash
Summary: They fixed the war in their favour, now they suffer the aftermath.
Kudos: 1





	1. Indestructible

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The God of War cannot be beaten in battle...

If anything I feel a little sorry for him. Not so much that I'd act in his favour, no, but enough that for a fleeting moment I feel...sorrow that he is meant to die. I liked him, for the cruel brute that he was. A brother, as much as that could have meant to either of us.

To be fair, everyone is meant to pass. All things may come to an end, no matter how long they last, no matter their power, everything has an expiry date set that cannot be erased or outrun. Even the stones will fade into dust, and when the stars explode that dust will be scattered from one end of space to the other. Our curses provide us with power; they do not leave us unbeatable, as he found when the Wardens bound him in chains even the God of War could not shatter. Hubris was his downfall, and foolishness the fuel on the fire of his defeat. A little joke, I assure him. Nothing for him to get too inflamed over.

I tell him as much, muted as he is to respond, trapped in his resplendent golden armour, unable to move or protest. Bah, does he know how many I have led to the great beyond, those thousands bearing wounds from his axe? Does he understand the legions of the forgotten dead clawing for revenge, fading into the aether where their memories will join into the boundless hate writhing in the black? Perhaps he looks back with regret at the life of carnage and destruction. Maybe he wonders how they plan on dealing with a man unable to be killed in combat.

It’s quite simple, I tell him. Even his feeble brain must realize that his curse has a fantastic loophole. He is indeed indestructible, I remind him as they pile wood around him. He cannot be killed by any mortal man, I whisper over the rustling chains and echoed howling deep within his impenetrable helm. He cannot be killed as long as he is fighting. Caius Cain cannot be killed in open conflict...but elsewise he is but a man, and a man can burn. The smell of oil fills the spaces left by the kindling piled around his armour. Can he smell the smoke, can he hear the gathered Wardens cheer?

Eliora places a hand on my shoulder and chides me with her silence.

I ignore her and tell Caius that I will stay as long as it takes, that Eliora will cut his lifeline like the others, that I will guide his soul to the underworld myself. I am his friend. All he has to do is stop fighting and let himself die. It won't take him long, none of the rest fought for long. When they cut Theophania to shreds, when they drowned Shauna in a cage, when they fired the pulsing remains of Octavius in a smelter, they all faltered and eventually gave in. Somewhere Major Decaro screams as they nail him to his cross- I’ll have to deal with him soon as well.

I tell Cain to let go, that he only prolongs the inevitable. I remind him that everyone gets to die someday.

Except me, I guess.

More the pity.


	2. Inside the Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jade Graves finds a new friend while lost in the backstreets of Southside

It's been so long since I spoke to anyone for any length of time that I've almost forgotten, but next to the fire, here in my lonely forge, I can speak to her. Green eyes ringed in gold reflect the sparks from the fire and shine like emeralds to light up the dusty interior of Sovereign Smithy. 

No, not emeralds. Jade, like her name. Jade Graves, definitely a more local sounding name here in Southside. 

In a simple white tunic and canvas trousers she stands out amidst the hanging chains and dust in the darkness of my home. I abandon the machines and devices maintaining the flames and hammers, and soon the chains clink gently in the breeze from the vents as the fires cool into embers. Swords and pieces can wait a while longer. I certainly have. 

She doesn't seem bothered when I tell her what I am. She claims to be from beyond Oakdeep, though her name is Southside for sure. Jade Graves, a name that reminds me of a time long past. Not many claim the name of Graves these days. Some call it ill fortune, but there's a stigma some can't shake.

She tosses her auburn locks about and laughs at my accent and my colloquialisms, saying that her father claims to be from Southside but his is easier to understand. Some speak in the full Southie accent, I explain, while some either learn or manage a quasi-Plexian dialect. I never made any effort. 

We speak for what seems like days, and when her great green eyes meet mine, glowing red and black even in the darkness, I find myself nervous and stuff my hand in the coals. She doesn't ask. 

Outside a storm falls onto Southside, washing blood and grime from a half dozen bodies into the gutters. The Rats won't come by this way for a while now, maybe the next gang of vagrant bandits will creep into my territory. I can't stop thinking about how she didn't react to...any of it. 

It's fine, she tells me. She's seen worse done by her family. I'm not assured, but I move on. 

"You'll have to meet my da," she remarks. "He'll be so glad to hear of you saving me from those hooligans, he just might give you a reward after he's done giving me a lecture for running off like I did."

He's not the one I want a reward from, I don't tell her. I ask his name, if he's from Southside then maybe I've met him. Unlikely given my antisocial tendencies, but plausible.

"Oh, da has many names. He's far older than you!" I mention that I stopped aging when I became a demigod, and that was almost two centuries past. I expect her to react. She nods knowingly. 

Her father turns out to be some sort of demigod as well, the Druids regard him as a trickster she says, then scrunches up her nose and mumbles something else under her breath that I don't catch. "To the Druids he's Lord Graag Vaaz, Master of the Wastelands and Protector of the Borderlands."

_"Ah didnae realise anyone owned the Wastes, or that there's anythin' to own past the Western Marches."_

"Oh, aye, laddie, thar be planty ta ooon," she apes my accent rather well and laughs, "but they leave us alone for the most part, unless they need his help. To me he's just da," thunder crashes directly overhead, shaking the forge and rattling my tools on the walls. She doesn't even blink. "But when he was human...he doesn't speak of it much. Only once, he said his name. His real name. Diggory Graves."

Everything stops for a second as the name rings through the forge. Then something impacts with the street outside hard enough to shatter the stone. 

I ask her to repeat the name as the air chills. Autumn it is, but a winter wind blows through the vents and sets my breath steaming in front of my face. 

"Diggory Graves."

_"Describe the man fer me."_

She raises an eyebrow and scoffs. "Why? Do you owe him money? He's taller than most, dark brown hair, green eyes- when they aren't glowing with magic- old scars on his neck, some Druidic tattoos...you look troubled." There is a presence, a weight outside the door that seems to bring us to the bottom of the ocean and leave us bare all at once. 

No. That name is dead, I tell her. That man can't be the same Diggory Graves. He died two hundred years ago. 

"Say what you will," she shrugs and gestures at the door. "My da is very much alive. Unless I'm mistaken he'll be in directly. Ask him then."

Fuck, she even talks like him. 

* * *

The chains rattle as he steps into the dim red glow of the forge, each footfall heavy enough to shake the tools on the walls. I stop mid-sentence to stare at him. A head shorter than me, but still a head taller than most men, he looks just the same as I remember him.

Lithe, long arms and legs, wiry muscle and bone. He's dressed in black pants and a dark grey vest over a black long-sleeved shirt, all drenched from the rain. Bandages dripping blood and rainwater start at his fingertips and disappear up his sleeves. Short dark hair matted against his forehead pokes out from under a black and gold bandana. He's not immediately armed, which is decidedly strange for him. 

He is dripping blood, which is decidedly normal. 

I shake my head and stare at him. I’ve seen a ghost. There’s no other way he’s here now. Laura said he'd died, hadn't she? 

Water drips into a growing puddle on the floor from his soaked clothes. No, he's not an apparition. Cruel green eyes glow under furrowed brows and narrow as they fall on me and the girl sitting by the forge. She smiles and cheers his name. 

"Da! I've made a friend! Saved me outside from...what's wrong?" Her smile barely fades and yet the warmth in the room seems to go with it. 

_“Jade...outside, love.”_

No, that’s definitely his hissing lilt, a broken mosaic of accents both stolen and earned. That horrible sneer is iconic as his legends were.

The girl smiles wide to crinkle shut her beautiful green and gold eyes. “In a second. First you have to meet my new friend, he saved me! You missed a great fight, you should have seen mister Colby here swinging-”

 _“Yes, I’m sure it was truly splendid to see him flail about with his beloved hammer,”_ he spares the girl a glance before returning his burning glare to me. He crushes my hopes of a peaceful talk with his next words, _“And now, unless I’m mistaken, there’s a second round nigh upon us. Am I right,_ friend _?”_ I’m far bigger than him, but if it came to a fight I’d be hard pressed to hold him off, let alone beat him. How would he fight me now that I'm practically immortal? 

I shake my head and run a hand through my beard. _“Diggory, it's no' like that. Ah didnae ken ‘twas your lass yon rats were chasin’ to me doorstep, this is nae more than-”_

 _“Can it, lad.”_ His original Southie accent almost returns as he barks at me. He composes himself again and gestures his head at the door. _“Jade. Outside. Now. Captain Cruachri and I have business to discuss.”_ She looks between us, growing confusion burying her smile ever further.

"'Captain Cruachri'? Mister Colby, what is he talking about? Da," she frowns and pleads, "what's going on?"

Graves' eyes soften as he looks at her. I hate to think that she is indeed his child, but the connection seems too real. _“Relax, child, your newest friend won’t find himself in too much harm. He’s indeed quite good for escaping judgement like that...or have you changed these past years, Colby?”_

Just as soon as she came into my world she was gone. A shining light in the midst of my gloomy and lonely forge, brightening it enough to last me another dozen lifetimes with every smile. Willowy legs take her out into the rain, and she throws her long auburn hair about with her hand angrily, mumbling profane curses under her breath that don’t seem to fit her beautiful voice. I recognise a few of them from my old marching days, learned no doubt from her father.

Jade is gone from my forge, and likely my life. In her stead is a man who was supposed to have died two centuries ago, along with many others who I doubt are to be joining us. I subtly check the doorway behind him. 

* * *

The room is silent but for the occasional crackle of embers in the forge. For a moment I grow a spine and decide that I won’t be intimidated in my own home, even by Pvt Diggory motherfucking Graves, apparently the only man I’ve ever known to survive a crucifixion. A shame, since I’d prefer anyone else to have made it through the Culling. A second later my hand dips into the coals and the warmth flows into my bones, comforting me in this trying time. 

I curse my weakness as the heat dances around my fingertips. 

His eyes seek out mine, and I'm reminded of a street performer who danced with a cobra some years back, until it bit him. The air between us is thick as oil. 

Well, no need to be impolite to a guest, even an unwelcome one. 

_“Graves.”_

_“Fuckface.”_

I grimace and slap my armrest, _“Oh, dinnae start like that, ye daft bastart! Are ye so resentful of me that ye would actually find it reason enough tae offend yer lass so, and after Ah went and saved the wee yin from gettin' tagged? Ye’re a right fuckin’ weapon aren’t ye?”_

He looks ready to explode but stops. _“...You saved her?”_

_“Aye, twas no great mischief. Had to coarse up some scaffies on the trail fer blood. Streets need cleanin’ time to time, and it’s been a right spell and change since anyone took trouble back to the rats last. Ah did find it peculiar that she didnae react to the blood...makes sense now.”_

_“Ah, now that is something. Captain Colby 'the King' Cruachri is looking to be a hero again, I see. What sort of reward did you want from my daughter?”_

I scoff, _“Pah, dinnae talk pish, cheeky cunt. Ah’m nae man tae leave a damsel tae fend fer hersel’. Poor thing was cuttin’ about stray, lost as could be ‘twix the Stacks.”_

His green eyes seem to glow in the firelight and I know I’ve misspoken. _“‘No man to leave a damsel’? Must be a new side of you left unseen until now. But for all these heroic aspirations you would still leave a dear friend nailed to a fucking beam, wouldn’t you? Oh yes, that's the Colby I know.”_ Two hundred years and he still has the same dangerous look in his eyes, but this is the first I’ve seen it directed at me. I can almost feel sorry for the poor souls Diggory butchered back in our day. 

They didn't call him the Reaper of Southside just because it sounded impressive. 

_“Digg, we were bein’ hunted, same as ye!”_ Why am I not jettisoning him into the street and making a break for it? Diggory Graves never listened to reason, not when rage suited him better, and I was no different in my prime. For a second the thought of his beautiful daughter turning cruel as her glorious father flashes through my head and I shudder.

_“It was murder on our souls tae leave ye at the barn like that, even when ye told us tae scramble. Eve with the distraction we still had tae fuckin’ leg it hard. We ran fer weeks frae the Wardens until the bastarts saw fit tae turn back and leave us alone. Then we ran more in case we’d been grassed by somecunt along the way. Ah dinnae ken how long ‘twas until we felt safe agin. By the time we finally stopped we were almost right through Redleaves, nearin’ the Borderlands. Took near a century to make me way back hame, and by then nobody cared. This forge...it’s all Ah’ve got.”_

Graves stares, eyes flickering orange in the firelight. His features don’t soften, but his eyes dim a bit. I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding in. If he’s learned how to do any spells then my Curse will be put to the test for sure. I've heard of Graag Vaaz and the awful blood magic he can produce. All the world needs is a monster like him to know how to open portals and throw fireballs. 

_“Ah’m sorry, Digg. We did mean tae save ye, and the Major, but by the time we were free ourselves we'd thought ye'd died. With a dozen Wardens ridin’ tight on our heels...wasnae anythin’ tae do about it. Morgana, she...”_ I draw a shaky breath and run a hand over my head, then bury my fingers back into the coals. _“Morgana went back after it was all done. Buried Shauna, Octavius, Theophania, and the Major- what was left of them, at least. Never pressed her fer details, poor lass, never spoke of it again. When we spoke tae Laura after...never said anythin' about ye, jus' shook her head and faded off into snow. Morgana’s died some years ago, maybe fifty years after...the Night.”_ My words fade into mumbling. _"Hell's bells, What happened?"_

 _"Laura was there. If she told you otherwise she was lying, that worthless bitch."_ He pulls back his lips in a snarl and licks his teeth. He always resembled a predator, and that's only grown with his ire. _"Never said anything about me? That vicious, self-serving, lying cunt. I had to rip myself from the beams, tearing the nails through my wrists- no thanks to her! So please, do try to imagine my anger- no, my absolute_ disgust _,"_ he spits, _"when I watch someone I respected leaving me pinned like a fucking moth as a spectacle of humiliation and agony. Hearing that I wasn't even mentioned among the dead is only the last of her insults. Do you want to know how it felt to watch Laura leave without cutting my lifeline? 'Excruciating' is a good start. Crushed."_

 _"She didnae cut the line,"_ I mutter. _"She never said ye lived- but she didnae say ye'd died either. Why would she nae just..."_

Graves glares at me, meeting my eyes with his and I see the centuries of hatred burning inside. _"' **Seek death and wait, as long as She avoids thee wait thou shall.'** It took me a while, but I figured out my curse, lad. A bit too late. Might be I have the worst of it that any of us got."_

* * *

He tilts his head and stares at my hand consuming the heat. Most people are uncomfortable by the sight of my Curse in action, but he looks...curious. Part of me wonders if he's trying to figure out how to kill me, if he knows what I am. Silence grips us and awkwardness creeps in again. I wonder how his daughter is doing outside. Fuck, I hope she doesn’t get lost again-

_“Tragic.”_

I don’t know what to say to his strange interjection. He strides over and kicks Jade’s chair around. He drops into it backwards hard enough to shake the floor and throws his arms over the back, with his chin resting on his wrists and staring blankly into the flames as my Curse devours more of the heat. Does he understand that I’m preparing for him to attack me? I doubt he cares, if Laura can't kill him then I doubt I could. Maybe I can just hold him down until he tires? 

_“Morgana promised she’d jump me on the spot if I came back. I kind of knew that was an empty promise, since I’m sure she was for the most part a lesbian."_

_"Aye, word about camp, er...Ah'd heard that too."_ I don't know what else to say to such a horrible remark. Sorry you got promised sex, but all you got was this lousy immortality? Please don't say that near me again? Good to see he hasn't changed much. Angrier, I guess. 

_"Oh well,”_ he grunts and rubs at the smoke in his eyes. _“If it helps any the Druids have raised some stones in our honour. Went about myself after and directed them to the sites of our best moments- the battle of Dryw, the Warpath, our various Last Stands. Apparently stopping the war kept their people from being wiped out, or some other bullshit,”_ he trails off and rolls his eyes. _“Some of them have taken to worshipping us, daft cunts they are. And I do mean all of us.”_

A dangerous thought crosses my mind. _“Even Brutus?”  
_

_“Huh, you mean the great Grimlord Brutus Ringar, Shepherd of the Dead?”  
_

_“Hell's bells, nae that loony goon!”_

_“Aye. One of their main deities, even if he's rightfully reviled. Enthusiastic lot, but stupid for sure. I think he's immortal...like me. Can't quite seem to die, I just...get back up. Tested it out, eh. Spent a few years killing myself...not my best moments. Most that sticks is a few scars, even those fade.”_

_"Digg, Ah'm...for what it matters, Ah'm sorry. There's nought Ah can do, Ah ken. Are ye still mad?"_

The flames crackle in the silence. Diggory closes his eyes and sighs, mumbling some choice curses under his breath. I can't imagine his place in this world. The tension bores into me like a drill and breaks my resolve. 

_“So, er...are ye still in a heavy flap,"_ I venture carefully, _"or are we on the even? "_ He says nothing and sinks further into the chair, feigning sleep like a child. _"Come on, don' be like that, be civil and give an answer, lad. We brawlin’ or nae?”_

_"Still not very bright after all these years, are you? What does your heart tell you?"_

_"Bah! Away with ye, dinnae talk pish. My heart tells me tae get a straight answer out of ye and not trust anythin' ye say regardless. Out with it: donnybrooks or peace?"_

Diggory opens one eye and stares at me. _“As far as we’re concerned? Hrm...well, I see this as repayment enough. You promised to save me, failed in that task- don’t give me that look, I'm still thinking here. I’ll drown you in the canal if that's what it takes,”_ he sighs and closes his eye again. _“Saving Jade from whatever bandits are smeared on the walls outside...means you saved a Graves in a most bloody fashion, even if it wasn’t the right one. Late, but still acceptable.”_ He stretches out a fist, and nods. _“Unlike most you outlasted my ire. 'Gaun yersel’, lad.'”_

 _"Gaun yersel', great lout ye are. I cannae believe we nearly came tae blows over that misunderstandin'."_ I touch my knuckles to his and shudder. There’s magic in his blood, for sure, something that wasn't there before. Something unnatural. _"Fuckin' Laura, of all people. Who'd figure a woman would drive a wedge betwixt us, eh?"_

 _"Don't mention that slag near me,"_ he sighs shakes his head. _"I won't lie, I may have taken serious action against her peace of mind these past centuries. If she's exhibited any signs of stress, that would be likely as not my actions directly doing their part."_

_"What? 'Ah won't lie'? The thought of ye not lyin' fer once might send me into a laughin' fit. Seriously, Ah'm sorry again it almost came to us tradin' blows. So, who'd've won, eh? My flames or yer...fists, or whatever ye use now?"_

Diggory huffs, _"I can't believe you saw even a bare chance of victory."_ He bares his crooked teeth in what could be a smile. _"A tremendous fighter you may be, Colby, but you're no killer. And it would't come to blows, lad. I was going to strangle you, then drag you to the canal and drown you in sewage."_

I'm disgusted and disquieted by the thought, given that it might actually work. Even in our time the Southside canal was no place to swim, or even stand near on a hot day. _“Either way, Ah'm gladdened to hear we’re still lads."_

He nods and pretends to sleep again. I can't stand the silence, not with such a tremendous question hanging over our heads. 

_"So, had yersel’ a bairn eh? Almost feel sorry for the mother. Tell me truly, lad, does...er, such beauty truly flow from yer blood? Doesnae look even a shade like ye."_

Graves shrugs, _"I know what you're trying to ask, and I appreciate the discretion. Last I checked she's mine. It's a good thing she does look more like her mother, if I dare say. Met her mother a few years back, poor lass lived in a border town in Redleaves, seemed excited by the thought of fucking a demigod, or whatever they call me. Year or so later the Elves razed it, barely saved Jade from the flames."_ He sighs, _"I do miss Sara some days. Always meant to avenge her." Might make a day out of it soon."_

_"Sorry tae hear that."_

_"You keep apologizing."_

_"Ah know, but Ah am sorry, as much as Ah can be. Sad times fer all when Elves bring war tae men, and us tae them. I was hopin' our involvement would end the squabbles, turns out we made it worse fer the rest of them."_

_"Aye,"_ he groans, _"we up the ante with blood, and children like Jade are the ones to suffer for it- and us in a fashion. One less to suffer-"_

 _"One less tae spare, too right ye are. Speaking of the lass, are we not gon'tae call her back in?”_ I gesture at the door, where his daughter is doubtlessly waiting with waxing patience and with growing ire in the cold autumn rain. _“Ah’m no’ fond of leavin’ her left outwith in this weather.”_

 _“Hmm?”_ Diggory frowns and turns his face towards where I’ve pointed without opening his eyes. Two centuries and he’s still the creepiest motherfucker I’ve ever had the displeasure of knowing. _“Oh...no, don’t trouble yourself. She ran off earlier when I was doing business at the docks, and we're used to rain in the Wastelands. Time in the rain is punishment for…for...”_

Before I can ask how he built himself a house in the Wastelands Graves stops and tilts his head, then leaps up fast enough to toss the chair across the room to shatter against the far wall. As he charges out the door he curses as green sparks arc between his fingers. _“Fuck me sideways, she’s run off again, hasn’t she? Just like her fucking mother, I swear I’ll lock that little bitch in the tower for this! Dammit- GET BACK HERE JADE BEFORE I HUNT YOU THROUGH THESE STREETS LIKE AN ANIMAL!”_

I close my eyes and tilt my head at the bellows. My magic touches the gears and machine grinds and rises, then the bellows fall to feed the embers into flames once again. I dig my arm in further and let the flames seep into my blood. I can't deal with this nonsense again. One Graves was too much. 

She must get the wandering spirit from her father, he never was one much for boundaries. I wonder for a moment what else she inherited from him. 

Poor lass.

On second thought, poor me. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh I think I rewrote this and edited it maybe a dozen times for clarity and content. While I'm no true Scotsman I've done my part in trying to replicate their frankly incredible dialect for the Southies. Ah cannae promise much, seeing as I want it to be legible enough to read and I don't naturally write like they do


	3. Deceiver

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhomdall and Raela make an unlikely alliance on their way to overthrow an Empire.

The fireplace flickers and snaps between the murmurs of the few quiet patrons of the tavern. In the corner furthest the door, at a table wreathed in shadow sit two hazy shapes. A young man, lean and lightly armoured with a circular shield on his back and a sword at his side, shoulders hunched as he glances worriedly from the tankard between his hands to the almost empty room. The other is a dark-haired woman in dark blue robes; and by the reflection in the glass lamp between us I look terrified.

With every snap of the fireplace I jump, hoping our luck holds out until our contact can show. If they ever show, that is. Vague instructions from a source we barely trust, but if this pans out even half as well as we hope then our entire journey will have meant something. Two years of travel, finally reaching a conclusion that we could scarcely dream of when we began.

Rom leans in close and drums his fingers against his tankard. “Another five minutes and we’ll have to go.”

“We can’t,” I hiss back. “We’ve risked too much to just walk away.”

“Since when are you such a risk taker?” he huffs and casts a wary eye over our fellow patrons. In this seedy tavern on the Southside-Oakdeep border we aren’t likely to run into Imperial Loyalists or guards, but Wardens always seem to show up when you least need them to. “Raela, any second a Warden could get the drop on us. If it comes to that and we’re fighting our way out, we’re too close to the Empire for that kind of attention.”

The door slams open as the other patrons wander out into the cold night air, leaving us alone.

“This isn’t Plexia, or Southside," I argue. "We’re a half-day’s travel inside the Oakdeep border.” The shadows flicker and waver with the firelight. “Relax,” I try to control my breathing myself. “You’re stressing me out, and I don’t need the distraction while we’re negotiating-”

A bottle slams on the table and we both jump almost out of our chairs. Rom has a hand on his sword and I quell the flames issuing from my palms. Somehow someone was able to sneak past Rom and myself, or appear through a wall quiet enough that neither Rom nor I could detect them.

Even with the dim light I can’t see much more than a faint outline of their face beneath their hood.

“You need better than a Northlander illusion spell to go unseen. In my message I said to be discreet,” a haughty female voice chills the room, a Druid lilt that rises and falls like a drunkard. “Discreet. Not fuck about waving a banner that you had clandestine business in this exact spot. May as well have sent up a beacon. In the future you’d do better to switch up what kinds of spells you’re using, assuming you live that long.”

“Are you the contact?” Rom doesn’t loosen his grip on his sword.

“Are you the two idiots trying to overthrow Inraald?” she sneers and shakes her head, loosening a few strands of long, wavy, coppery hair. “Yes, I’m the fucking contact you dolt,” she drawls and places three glasses on the table between us, “and you two need to learn to move a bit more surreptitiously.” Rom frowns further, eyebrows almost touching. “It means secretly. I was amazed that you made it this far,” she adds, mocking an amazed tone, “now I’m sure it was luck.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Rom sighs and pushes his blade back into the sheath, but his fingers keep their grip. “First off, who are you and why are you helping us?”

The woman sits and shakes the sleeves from her hands, revealing long slender fingers marked with swirling blue tattoos of runes snaking up her wrists. On the back of her left hand is a symbol any student of magic should know and fear: the pierced spiral raindrop, the sigil of the Demon Lord Graag Vaaz. “You should thank your fortune that you’re in the right establishment.” What I can see of her face outlined against the shadows from this angle is slender and pretty, but her smile is less trustworthy than it is unkind. In a seedy bar like this, in one of the few towns on the Imperial border, friendly faces are few; hers is remarkably cruel. “While this is close to Southside, where I also have my share of connections, we are certainly in Druidic territory. This is my domain, but don’t flaunt your righteous cause too much. You’ll find most Druids don’t hate Inraald like what’s left of you Northlanders.”

I tear my eyes away from the blue spiral as she pours herself a glass of what smells like paint stripper. “You’re an acolyte of the Demon Lord.”

The hood tilts towards me and I catch a glint of a smile in the darkness. “All Druids owe their freedom and way of life to Lord Vaaz.” She pulls up her sleeve to show more sigils tattooed into her flesh. “And the Blacksmith. And the Chainbreaker, and the White Wraith, the Grimlord, the Lightbringer” with each name she traces the sigils of the Druid pantheon trailing up her arms. “Even the Werewolf Queen. If I didn’t have these, I hope you’d know I was a fraud. But to address your remark: I’m not as much an acolyte, but I do owe everything I have to him. Anything more?”

Rom sucks his teeth for a second and nods. “Yes, one more point. Take off your hood and tell us who you are.”

The hood tilts back to him and the woman laughs, showing red lips and straight white teeth. “Oh dear, that would be entirely redundant. If you’re a good lad maybe we’ll let you in on the secret...Rhomdall ‘Twicedead’ Vellhold. Yes, I know you lad: you’re a punk who thinks because he got lucky twice he’s on a divine mission of destiny itself. Don’t think your every move will be planned by the kinder fates.”

“To business?” I interject before we lose too much time. “We’re still being hunted, everywhere we go. Even here.”

“Aye, you are. A good head on those shoulders, Raela ‘Whitestaff’ Valros,” the woman purrs and twirls her drink. “Hate to see that good head rolling away from those shoulders down the Palace’s marble steps. Do you know what they’ll do when they catch you?”

“If they catch us,” I grit my teeth and try my best to hold back my anger. She shrugs and lifts her drink to under the hood, tilting it back without losing her cover. “And they won’t catch us because-”

“They will, they always catch the likes of you,” she interrupts as she rolls her sleeves back down, leaving only the Dominator’s spiral raindrop shimmering in the candlelight; I can sense a faint magic in them, aside from the mysterious glow beneath her sleeve- a beacon, a tracer? “They caught the would-be assassins didn’t they? In your city, where they were given refuge and thus damned the whole town. Look where that brought us, eh? So I’ve been charged by...a certain interested party, so to say, with getting you access to materials which might help further your quest.” Rom and I share a quick look of mistrust, and fragile hope.

“Yes, word has come to me that you two have hit a snag. Your last foray into King’s smithy led you nowhere once he found where your sights were trained. Did the old man give into mercy and tell you to leave, or did he erupt like usual? Tell me, what were your thoughts when Lady Mercy’s priestesses dragged you from the temple gates and left you stranded in the swamp with the Werewolves on your tails? Did you swear revenge on them too?”

Rom pushes his face closer to the hood. “I don’t know what you’re getting from this, but you’re starting to outlive your welcome-”

The woman laughs and pours herself a full glass from the bottle. A sickly-sweet smell fills the air and she throws back the entire glass with a flick of her head. Her hood drops to reveal more of her long auburn hair, bound in twin tails behind her ears with a sparse tiara of silvery antlers wrapped in thorns, adorned with emeralds at her temples. Her skin is a dangerous pale shade, with a few freckles across her nose to suggest youth. A face that even outsiders should know very well sits between us.

“It’s hard to outlive the welcome in your own fucking kingdom. I’ve done it once. A second time won’t come by your doing.”

“Queen Aisling, your majesty- your highness, I-I didn’t,” Rom stammers as I stare at the Queen of the Druids. The Blackhart, called that for the burnt royal crest she claimed upon retaking her throne from a usurper- a counter-coup that she led on a leash held by the Lord of Pain himself. If there was anyone who would understand our need for justice it was her. “Forgive me-”

“I will grant you all the forgiveness you deserve when you’ve maintained some level of silence, petulant fool.” Queen Aisling sets out a glass before each of us and pours out more of the incredible smelling alcohol. “Ugh, this poison will kill me faster than the stress of watching you two amateurs bumble around like a pair of virgins in a broom closet. Oh don’t blush like that, it’s hardly becoming of someone looking to call themselves a hero, eh?” she scolds me and waves her hand at me. I look away from her and Rom and try to find anything appealing about the glass set before me. “And if you’ll join me in a drink, I welcome you to Oakdeep. Don’t stay long.”

“Oh, er...thank you, your majesty. Is this, er...is this safe to drink, your majesty?” Rom ventures, sniffing the glass carefully.

Aisling shrugs and throws back her third glass just as fast as the first two. “Don’t spill any, it’s a gift from a friend who makes it himself, and I’m not sure of what it’ll do to the floorboards. Two things before we get to business proper. First: call me Aisling or Ash; titles tend to get irritating. Second: drink this demonic poison fast so it burns your stomach and not your throat. Now for your rather suicidal quest,” she snatches my glass, which is just as well as I was growing more sure that the drink was a mix cleaning solution and formaldehyde, “I have a contact for you, an advisor of sorts who is willing to offer some knowledge as you move onward from here.”

I give Rom a pointed look. “That would be...helpful. I take it there’s a catch?”

Rom smirks, “Must be a steep price if royalty has come by to pass the message.” He sniffs his glass again, shrugs, and tries to drink it as fast as he can. I can’t help but wince as he hacks and gasps for air with the veins on his neck sticking out dangerously far. “Fuck me sideways! Was this the only alcohol you could find, or…”

Aisling rolls her eyes, “I came only because it’s the only way you’d trust the path given. Some faceless messenger, surely a trap. Queen of the Druids? Someone too trustworthy and important to tack onto a mere trap. Your mission has no immediate interest to me; kill Inraald and another will take his place, and likely as not they’ll be worse. While he’s no great friend to the Druids or the Serpent Nations he’s not our enemy either. We tolerate his relative benevolence and appreciate a decade or two without war. My advice for you is to accept that what happened was awful but it was outside any control and revenge won’t bring anyone back. I’ve lost before, and I’ve seen what grief can do when it’s fed by hate. What I did was justice, you want vengeance. Kill Inraald and more will die. But,” she huffs, “since this doesn’t affect me yet, I don’t really care either way how you choose to kill yourselves. Do as you will, but at least listen to someone who knows better before you leave.” She slaps her hands on the table and leans back, “There, I’ve said more than I should. Decide.”

Images of my city ablaze and long shadows cast by lines of crosses fill my head. “We can’t. You of all people should understand that we can’t just give up. Not after we’ve come so far. We swore we’d avenge our-”

“I just told you I don’t care, so why are you still nattering on? I’ve said my piece,” Aisling grumbles as she refills her glass and pushes the bottle towards Rom. “I know your cause, I know the story, I don’t care because I am busy with running my own nation, hopefully to a better future than yours.”

Rom blinks through the pain and stammers, “Uhh...then...then why? What are you doing here then? There can't be much the Blackhart can get out of this.” I’m amazed he can even speak at all with the vile concoction flowing through his body.

“Passing along a message for an old friend. A contact by the name of Cora is willing to help you gain access to a spellbook- a journal, I should say, containing a collection of spells that will doubtless provide you with all the help you could ever need when you leave.”

Rom wipes the tears from his eyes and nods at me. “I can go along with that. Where do we meet this Cora?”

Aisling sighs and shakes her head. “No chance of changing your mind at all? Fuck. North of here, then.”

“Do you have a map, or a signal we can use to find them? Raela’s good with the magical tracker stuff.”

I steeple my fingers and lean in, hopefully looking a bit more professional than my boyfriend, “He means a trace spell. I’m better with hair or a proximal trinket, but I can manage with-”

Aisling gestures towards the door. “No maps, no need for this one. A simple path that a blind man could follow. You’re not going to stay long in Oakdeep, you’ve...outlived your welcome as it were.” Her smile is just a hair shy of malicious, but certainly far from friendly. I was hoping the volatile spirits would raise hers.

Bal deadpans, “You literally just welcomed us here, like a minute ago.”

“And I’ve also asked you to leave several times. Imperial spies know who you are, and to a degree they also know where you are. I’ve done what I can to throw them off,” she gestures at a large man sitting at the bar with a dripping sack the size of a head hanging from his belt, “but resources and time are not on your side. I don’t care if you leave or get killed on my lands, but your new contact has expressed interest in you and I hate to disappoint them, as much as it disappoints me to pass you along to them.”

“How bad can this Cora be?” Rom wonders aloud as Aisling raises an eyebrow at him.

“Bad enough that I’m doing my damnedest to dissuade you fools from following her without outright telling you to leave it. You can either fall off the map, or follow this route. Your choice.”

Rom and I gape at the queen and her strange ambivalent remarks. Rom collects himself quickly. “So...how far north are we going? The Badlands? The Blue Mountains?”

Aisling stares with disappointment clear on her face before she speaks. “You’re thinking too far. Your next journey is going to be shorter than you expect. Not so much north as north-west, I should have said.” Aisling huffs as she rolls her eyes again. “Fuck, if I didn’t… I’m sending you to the Wastelands, okay? You idiots attract attention, like flies to filth. In this case someone wishes to balance the field between you and the Wardens; someone in the service of Lord Vaaz wishes to grant you aid. Now do you see why I needed to be here? Why I want you to give up?”

The table is quiet as Aisling’s pitch drops into a bitter hiss.

“Because from anyone else it would sound like an obvious trap,” I venture quietly. “You were right.”

“Even from you, it still seems sketchy,” Rom adds apologetically. “No offense, your highness.”

Aisling shakes her head and stares at us in turn. “It is incredibly sketchy, not to mention dangerous. Any offer from anyone in Black Rock Citadel should be regarded as a genuine threat to your wellbeing, no matter who speaks for whom. Though I had my doubts about Cora’s legitimacy at first I can assure you this is a genuine offer from an otherwise reliable source. She means well, even if what she offers is the worst option. Trust me, please. Either abandon your quest, or if you desire death and danger go speak to Cora. Make haste, children, and decide wisely.”

For us it’s not much of a choice. We nod, rise and bow to the queen as long as decorum dictates, and gather our packs and weapons.

Aisling shakes her head, “Of fucking course you’re going. The others were right, you two are mad beyond help. Take the West Road out of town,” Aisling calls as she refills her glass a final time, “then turn north when you see...Them. Rotting Pass. Hike from there along the path, and do not stray. Two days should get you to the Citadel.”

Rom stops and looks up at Aisling. “Them? Who is it we’re looking for at Rotting Pass?”

Aisling shakes her head, “It doesn’t bode well to speak more than briefly of the Rotting Pass from Oakdeep into the Wastelands. The Master tends to listen over the lands at his own leisure. I speak of the roadside markers, written in a language that all speak, man and elf and beast alike. You will know it when you see it. Speak not of it any more, lest he hears us and joins the conversation.”

“Thank you,” I tell the queen as we cross the threshold. “Thank you so much for your help.”

I don’t know why she looks so sad.

* * *

I stare at the bottle in front of me, half empty but still reeking of that foul sharp liquid he loves so much. “Don’t thank me for this. I gave you every chance. I had to. Don’t ever thank me for that…”

The temperature drops harshly, the fire dips low and splutters. 

_“I shall commend your efforts, dearest Ash.”_

He’s here.

_“A splendid attempt at tossing a spanner into my machinations, I must admit you came close. Made for a wonderful show.”_

A hand wreathed in black smoke fondles the bottle before tipping it into Rae’s abandoned glass. The smoke clears from the limb to reveal a wiry arm wrapped in bloodied cloth from fingertip to elbow. Rae’s chair slides out from the table as Bal’s seat is flung across the room by an invisible hand to break into splinters against the wall. I turn my head only to save my eyes from the splinters and dust. I mustn’t move too much when he’s in a foul mood like this. The room seems to bend and creak under some great invisible weight.

_“It appears that I’ve missed the wee lovebirds on their daring quest. A shame, I would love for them to see how I reward my faithful few for such valiant efforts at defiance.”_

“My Lord, please...I was…”

A hiss stops my breath. The air feels like I’m in the middle of a storm, like I’m drowning, like I’m freezing all at the same time. I was...what? What do I say I was trying to do? You don’t lie to Graag Vaaz, Lord of Fear and Suffering and Lies. 

_“No reason to stop, lass. Do tell me, what were you doing? Do you need more of my private stock to loosen your tongue? No? Perhaps you've had your fill. Such weakness is...unbecoming on you. To stop to sabotage? A queen should be more honourable...and trustworthy."_

“Please,” I mutter and keep my eyes on the table. The shadows flicker about the room, ignoring the light as they dance into a familiar shape across from me. “Please don’t do this, not to these two. They don’t deserve it. They’re just- they're just foolish children. Let them travel about aimlessly like they have, let them lose interest, let...damn it all, let them be caught and executed as they would without your help. They’ll die on their own. Why are you doing this to them? They don’t deserve this,” I repeat, eyes burning from tears.

 _“No one does, dear love...”_ I lift my eyes a fraction to see the man sitting next to me transforming from smoke into a true physical form. His crooked teeth glint in the poor light. _“And yet...I’m going to do it regardless.”_

“My Lord, don't...”

 _“Who commands me? You? I took pity upon a beaten wretch, a naked and broken slattern torn from her silly little pedestal. I made you into a queen, the one you were destined to be.”_ He licks his teeth and leans in so I can smell the blood and poison on his breath. _“Best to be careful. Another coup so soon would...heh,_ ravage _your lands,”_ he hisses his sickening laugh. I don’t miss the joke.

I do however miss the black chains wrapping around my wrists that pull me back into the shadowy portal behind me.


	4. The Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay I enjoyed writing the 88th Death Row too much to make just one chapter, I'm stealing it from here and publishing it as its own work.  
> Ugh, and to think I'd finally figured out an idea that worked  
> Later

Fuck I gotta come up with an idea soon...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Damn, work picked up and drained me more than I thought it would, didn't have much chance or energy to do anything other than a few notes and ideas that either didn't pan out or felt blegh. Other than that I did a lot of jack shit, intermixed with agonizing boredom. 2/10 would not recommend  
> Pounded out a lot of this after a bit of a disagreement tuned into something more permanent. Turns out that negativity breeds more writing, and Angry Jakhash has lightning fingers  
> Edit: Yeah I did it to myself again, who knew


	5. Perfect Insanity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their battlecry was simple: Pay With Blood

They aren’t right. Sure, each is beautiful, identical, mysterious, and charming- one might even go so far to call each iteration of her delightful- but not one of them has an ounce of humanity in them. But they aren’t for mere pleasure, at least not in the way a woman normally is. No, they were made for a different purpose, constructed of evil magic and metal, wrapped in flesh torn from the dead and dying. The bodies they leave behind are never whole, if they leave behind more than bloodied skeletons and dark stains on the ground. 

It is said he brought them forth from the darkest corners of the abyss, where the broken memories of the damned and forgotten writhe and fester in the endless black. The hatred he felt lit the flames that forged their souls into a living breathing engine of chaos, the wrath he bestowed in them froze their hearts from feeling anything but a sick glee. A thousand million abominable souls of rage, unchained to unleash anguish upon the living. 

To see a crow at dusk is an ill omen, and an entire murder on a fence is worse. Hearing an owl in the dead of night is worse still. But to see those beautiful red eyes smiling brings naught but death and sorrow, because she loves carnage and despair and havoc. 

The world slows when she smiles, pretty and straight teeth always too white and too perfect. Even after they’ve fed and blood drips from their chins they break a man’s heart with a look. Crimson eyes that glow with whatever vile magic her creators imbued her with haunt the Wastelands and beyond, wherever she is sent to enact the bidding of the Demon Lord and his band of misfit freaks. Monsters, leviathans and serpents in human form, werewolves, creatures from the furthest dimensions...and Her. 

She is perfect. Anyone could size her up in an instant and tell you her proportions were exact, her beauty staggering, and her power immeasurable. 

The sane cower in terror. The mad fall in love with the carnage. 

She is his beloved Brii. 

They are all Brii. 

* * *

It rarely rains in the Winter Court, but it seems fitting that the skies would open for a day like this. Every soldier and prime and paladin in the North must be here to surround this party of representatives from the Blight and his foul citadel. From our vantage we can watch from afar as the Blight and Beast parley their own demise. 

The Blight heaves like a wounded animal with wild eyes. Each breath unleashes a cloud of noxious fumes and smoke that curls and falls in a most unnatural fashion onto the mud. With him walks the Beast, the human Forgemaster Colby Cruachri, sending small puffs of smoke up with each raindrop that lands on his shoulders, and a small companion of acolytes, figures in long hooded robes in two lines of six, with another walking before the wild fiends. Other than being of the same height, just below their master’s shoulder, we can determine no else about them until the foremost speaks in a charming female voice, affected by...something. 

_ “We are here as emissaries of his grace, the Lord Graag Vaaz.”  _ There is a sinister glee to her voice. Beneath her hood she must be smiling. 

“In this court we do not recognize any titles either unnatural being behind you bears,” Mirmala the Herald replies as he steps from the line of spears and shields surrounding the sinister pack. “We recognize this Blight as his Human name. Diggory Graves, a cursed man posing as a god. No more than that will be acknowledged.”

_ “No? Oh, that is sad.”  _ The cloaked speaker steps forward as the others converge closer around their master.  _ “It’s a human power that my lord bears, why would you get to decide his fate?” _

Cruachri turns to guard their rear, a pitiful and pathetic gesture.  _ “Ah told ye, these verminous cunts aren’t keen on hearin’ our piece, love. Let them come, they've much to pay for.” _

Of course we won’t listen to such deviants of the most unnatural sort. They’re in the centre of the Court of Winter Elves, surrounded by the entire population and gathered armies of the North, expecting justice? Snow white armour and silver robes as far as the eye can see, spears low and ready to impale the fifteen braggarts foolish enough to seek justice for natural order.  _ “Elves have no power to give or take titles, not from the bold few who would stand against you. What gives you dominion over demigods and men?” _

“Demigods? You and your kind are criminals against nature,” Mirmala continues before the acolyte can speak, pointing at the Blight between his acolytes. “That _thing_ is no demigod. His breath violates the air around him. His touch withers and corrodes the very soil. Before us is a true evil, a demon, and we will seal you away within the prison you stole and call home, you and every twisted device and festering scrap you have brought forth from hell. That will be our apology- to the world you have molested and scourged for long enough.”

_ “Fah! You think you’ll seal us away?"  _ The woman waves off Mirmala's words with a twitch of her hidden hand.  _ "You will do nothing of the sort, not when you can bleed,” _ the woman pulls her soaked hood back and grins as she throws her long coppery hair with a flick of her wrist. For a human she’s beautiful...but after a second glance many of us can tell she’s not human, not even close. At first glance any untrained eye would be fooled for how simple and ordinary her construction is, but there is a magical essence about her, malicious and cruel as her glowing red eyes crinkling over her freckles. Blood and preserving fluid reeks in the air around her like a perfume. As far as constructs go, this is one of the less obscene we’ve seen the Blight and the Colossus conjure. 

But something about her aura isn't right. Even for a construct there's something...wrong. 

_ “Our mission is not to beat you into submission. Our quest will not end when the Elves yield. This is to be less of a decimation, as you might expect, but more of an extermination. You will not apologise. Not only are you unwilling, you are also disallowed by order of the Master of Black Rock Citadel. Calm yourself, dear herald. It would do no good to let you speak meaningless words, not when you can pay with blood,”  _ she sighs as the rest of the acolytes pull back their hoods to reveal a dozen more of the same face, the same youthful face, the same copper hair that the rain cannot wet, the same curious movements like a pack of predators. They flank and protect the Blight as he breaks composure and turns more feral by the second. 

Mirmala looks taken aback by the calm and disinterested tone the construct speaks in, as he should, but pulls himself together to respond. “You speak as if you have already won, fiend. Yet here you stand, surrounded by the combined armies of the North!”

The speaker ignores him and paces as she spews her lies and horrid suggestions.  _ “Yes, we’ll get to that in a second. Where were we? No Elf living- or any that will ever live- will be allowed to apologise for your crimes, but we do permit you to beg for mercy as you die. For your unkind acts and attitudes towards us we will take what you cherish most...we will upend nature, and use your blood to fuel our chaos. Let the innocent children pay for your absent guilt with blood. It’s how you like to see this done, right?”  _ The construct smiles so sweetly it could almost distract from her vile words. 

“Pay with blood? For what? The Winter Court bears no guilt for what your master brought upon himself,” Mirmala grits his teeth and steps back into line with the others. “We will never shift our stance, there is no other to take, no matter how much you threaten and stall. This farce has gone on too long, it ends now. You are here to be purged as the Blight you are. If that is all-”

_ “We will not fail.”  _ The construct licks her teeth, looking hungry and wild.  _ “Others must learn from your mistakes. Don’t feel afraid, you shall perform one last task before soaking the dirt with your blood: each of you will bear his mark, so your bodies will serve as a reminder to the world what terrible fate awaits those who would so cross Lord Graag Vaaz. It should be an honour to affect the world so. Soon you can become like us.”  _ She smiles with perfect straight teeth, thirteen identical perfect smiles, a cold grimace, and a beastly snarl. 

The construct brushes her hair behind a vaguely pointed ear and my heart drops. Stars above, I finally get it- she's no normal construct of human metal and blood, she's fashioned out of Elven flesh! The Blight's depravity and soulless disdain for decency know no bounds. 

Mirmala swipes his hand frantically to silence the construct. I wonder if he's picked up on it too. “Enough! We do not recognise that name in this court, no titles given by man bear weight here. All this has been is a futile gesture of false strength and a waste of time. You terrible fiends will spew no more twisted and empty threats . I speak for the Icy Crown of King Noori, and as Herald and Acting Captain of the Guard I command the guards to destroy and immolate-”

A whip of braided metal extends from the long sleeve of the head construct and wraps around Mirmala’s neck and head. The woman shrieks a terrible noise through her wild grin as she yanks the cord back, snapping the Herald forward and twisting his head backwards. His body falls to the mud with a splash, eyes facing the sky in a most unnatural way. She cackles at the sight of those nearest backing away and raising their shields. 

The cables retract up the woman’s sleeve, leaving a trail of silvery blood across the ground leading to her side. 

_ “We are Brii. We are Hell’s Belles. Pay with blood!” _

Cruachri raises a hand and clenches his fist at the nearest line of primes. Magic ripples from his hand and bends the air as it grips the spearheads and armour closest to him. Before any of the soldiers can react the spearheads rip off their shafts and wrap around Cruachri’s hand in a molten mess, and their armour crumples and crushes the primes in a cacophony of shrieking metal and muffled screams cut short. Cruahri steps forward and stomps his boot into the mud, and the armour melts and rushes along the ground like quicksilver to wrap around his leg. 

As Cruachri absorbs more of the fallen metal, the awful constructs- the aptly named Hell’s Belles- cast off their long black robes for black shorts and crimson long-sleeves and break off to engage the front lines. From their hands burst flames, prehensile cables, spikes, and all manner of painful implements. They rush the lines, dodging spears and blades and projectiles with mirthful ease, cackling and laughing as they rip and tear and slay everything they touch. 

A frost troll bearing a great club studded with spikes breaks from the lines and bellows as it rushes the slowly expanding horde of fiends pushing into our lines. The creature bellows and makes for one of the Belles mounted atop a fallen soldier and raining down horrible blows from the steel spike in her hands. The ground quakes and a slab of stone rises between the troll and his quarry, flipping the beast onto its back in front of Cruachri. The club rolls onto the Beast’s feet. 

_ “Pay with blood”  _ Cruachri crows and kicks the club back to the troll. The troll snarls and roars as it raises the club high to crush the man daring to challenge it. Nobody expects Cruachri to explode into a great white fireball, causing the club to pass through his intangible body. The troll’s momentum carries it through the failed attack, directly into the searing flames. Screams drown in the roar of flames and clashing of metal as the Belles and Cruachri drive further through the Elven army, cutting down anything they can reach without mercy. 

Even from a distance we can see the great Lord Graag Vaaz hunched over in the centre of it all. A giant white rat perched on his shoulder sniffs at the sky and chitters as the madman mumbles a mantra. 

_ "They'll pay...they'll pay with blood. Every drop...pay with blood...pay with blood...we'll let the rain wash it away..." _

* * *

The battle isn’t done, the war is still on, but we are finished. 

Long tanned legs and black combat boots stride through the corpses. Lines along her joints and down the sides of her legs betray the seams where the devilry inside can burst forth. A faint creaking follows her every move, like wires straining against each other. As she walks she rolls up the wide sleeves of her robe to reveal delicate fingers dripping blood onto the black cloth. More faint lines converge around her knuckles and fingers, disappearing up her arms, and as she moves the plates click and move back into place, ejecting a few gobbets of flesh. 

It's almost hard to believe she's made of the same flesh as those she was made to destroy. 

She grins at the Blight and the Beast, playful and free to mask the hateful beast underneath. She is beyond unholy, there is no word in the tongues of man or elf to describe the vicious evil behind those eyes. Nothing has ever been so evilly made as her, and never will there be a greater force of darkness and anti-nature in any time yet to be. 

Next to her the Blight walks between the lines of crosses and gibbets they’ve hung the survivors on, over piles of bodies and through quicksilver puddles of blood and the chunks of gore. He doesn’t look happy. He doesn’t look relieved. If anything he looks lost. Every now and again he stops to stare at a body hanging in the wind, meeting their eyes as they pass into the next world. The Beast hangs behind them, stomping along and absorbing more metal into his flesh. 

I can relax as I die, knowing that in the end we won. I let my eyes close, hopefully for the last time. 

_“Harvest them.”_ The Blight still schemes his horrid devices into existence. Would that we crushed him instead of enraging him, the world would have been saved whatever his next plan is. 

_“Sure, lad, we could always use more Belles. Good to have a few around, very comfortin' they are when they're nae butcherin' anythin' that moves. How many do we need, Digg?”_

_ “...Enough to build a few more, plus new body for an old friend. Someone who wouldn’t want to miss this for the world.” _

_ “Caius Cain, ye mean? His soul might not be whole anymore.” _

_ “What? No. Not him. The soul we’re after never was entirely whole, we just need to rejuvenate the essence until his powers return.” _

_ “Not entirely...nae. Digg, that's nae right! Ye wouldnae, surely! How can ye think that bringing him back would help anythin’?” _

_ “Let them surround us. Let them bring every hand against us. Surround the last stronghold of the Lord of Fear and Suffering, caught out deep in their capitol. And when they converge...” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Might be I was having a bad day when I wrote this.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a story I've been bouncing around for a while now, and finally worked up the courage to submit it somewhere  
> Found writing everything start to end to be tiresome and frankly difficult, and most writing prompts I sought out didn't seem to fit what I wanted, got this idea listening to music on the way to work


End file.
